


your house is a lonely box that holds you (love will guide you home)

by thylionheart



Series: if my heart was a house, you'd be home [7]
Category: A Wrinkle in Time (2018), Kairos (O'Keefe) Series - Madeleine L'Engle
Genre: Abusive Parents, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety Attacks, Child Abandonment, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kissing, Kything, Middle School, Panic Attacks, Post-Movie, Romance, Spousal Infidelity, bc i'm not sure which is the appropriate term in the situation i just tagged both, this is the longest one yet buckle in my dudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-07 07:06:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15903336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thylionheart/pseuds/thylionheart
Summary: Meg goes to Calvin’s house for the first time.*not a standalone*





	your house is a lonely box that holds you (love will guide you home)

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so in the last fic I wrote, I had said that Calvin found his father's letter when he came home from school. I have since edited that part, instead saying that he found it after coming home from a basketball game, because I realized after writing this fic that the timeline doesn't work if he found the letter on a Friday.
> 
> So, to clarify: The nightly events of the last fic now take place on a Saturday night, the morning conversations on Sunday morning, and the events in this here fic take place on Sunday and Monday.

Sunlight broke past the towering palms and cast patchy shadows on the sidewalk as Meg and Calvin walked down the street. Despite the sunny day the air was crisp and cool, and Meg shoved her hands into the pockets of her denim jacket for warmth.

After her parents had told Calvin he was welcome to live with them part-time, he and Meg had spent the rest of the morning curled up on the couch watching cartoon reruns and choking back tears of joy. Around ten o’clock Charles Wallace had skipped down the stairs and burrowed between them. The young boy hadn’t asked any questions, and the teens hadn’t given him any answers; judging by the wide grin on his face and the excited way he had thrown his arms around Calvin, he somehow already knew.

It was after lunch when Meg and Calvin finally left to collect the latter’s belongings from his house. As they reached the iron-wrought fence surrounding the immaculately mown lawn, Calvin’s hands trembled and he fumbled with the gate latch.

Meg had never been inside his house before. From the threshold, she had an open view of both the living room and the kitchen. The hardwood floor was so light and polished she could her reflection, and when Calvin flipped the light switch inset ceiling lights illuminated every nook and cranny. A granite-topped island stood in the middle of the kitchen and a white sofa and cream leather recliner sat before the TV. Meg sucked in a deep breath when she saw the steel-aluminum coffee table that had scarred Calvin’s cheek. Mrs. O’Keefe hadn’t replaced the centerpiece.

The house, Meg had to admit, was beautiful. But there was a coldness to its beauty; no pictures adorned the walls and no knickknacks cluttered the marble mantle. The silver refrigerator was sleek and bare, and there were no pillows or blankets anywhere in the living room. It looked more like a house plucked from a catalog than someone’s home. Though heat flowed from the vents above her, Meg shivered.

Calvin’s fingers skimmed the edge of an empty glass tray sitting on the island. “Hallelujah,” he mumbled to himself. Looking at Meg, he told her, “My mom isn’t home. This is where she always puts her keys.”

Together they climbed the carpeted stairs to the second floor. Calvin passed by three doors before opening the door at the end of the hall. Meg followed him inside.

His room was surprisingly bare—the walls were a cold white, free of posters or pictures; his bedding was a solid, deep blue, and the only personal items Meg saw were athletic trophies and an overflowing bookshelf.

Calvin noticed her staring at the walls. “I’m not allowed to tape or tack anything up. It might ruin the paint.”

Meg walked over to the bookcase, taking in the odd mixture of worn children’s books and hardback classics, and started reading the titles aloud. “ _The Chronicles of Narnia, Anne of Green Gables, The Music of Dolphins,_ _The Giver, Great Expectations, To Kill A Mockingbird_ , _The Complete Works of William Shakespeare_ , _Starfish: Biology and Ecology of the Asteroidea_ …wow. You’ve read all these?”

Rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, Calvin sat on the edge of his bed. “Uh, no. The kid’s books, yeah, but I’ve only read maybe half of the classics. I’ve mostly stuck with Shakespeare since we’re gonna be learning about his plays in school soon.”

There was something sticking out of a faded copy of _Matilda_. Meg slipped the book off the shelf and sat beside Calvin, thumbing through the yellow pages until it she found an old, creased photograph.

Next to her, Calvin made a small noise of surprise. “I forgot about that.”

It was a photo of him and his family. They appeared to be sitting in a studio; the lighting was harsh and artificial and they were dressed in semi-formal attire. There was a date stamped in the corner: April 2010, making Calvin six years old at the time it was taken. What surprised Meg most about the photo was that everyone was smiling—wide, plastic smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes.

Calvin took the photo and the book from Meg. He studied the former for a minute, his jaw growing tense and his shoulders drooping.

“Y’know, I…I just keep wondering when my dad stopped loving me. If he ever did. Love me. But,” his voice dropped lower, “I mean, when I was born, did he...did he hold me? Was there a moment when he looked down at me in his arms and thought proudly, ‘This is my son’?”

The photo seemed, in Meg’s eyes, to grow heavier in Calvin’s hands. She scooted closer and rubbed his back.

“I don’t think my mom even wanted kids,” continued Calvin. “When I was little, I used to be so jealous of all the other kids whose moms would pick them up after school or take them to the park. I’m still jealous. And when I see how much your mom loves you and Charles Wallace, it…I just…”

Abruptly Calvin stood. _Matilda_ slid off his lap and hit the floor with a thud.

Meg stood too, worried. “Calvin?”

“Sorry. I’m sorry, I’m fine.” He wiped at his eyes and sniffed. “Let’s just get my stuff and go. I don’t…I don’t wanna be here anymore.”

“Okay.”

It didn’t take Calvin long to gather several changes of clothes and a few books, and Meg helped him shove it all into his basketball duffel. He also lifted his mattress and pulled out the stuffed otter Meg had given him, which he had affectionately—and humorously—named Harry Otter. Meg grabbed his backpack and slung it over her shoulder. With one last glance around Calvin’s bedroom, they left.

 

* * *

 

Halfway down the stairs, Calvin heard the front door rattle. His heart flew up into his throat and he stopped short.

Meg bumped into him. “Cal? What is it?”

“My mom’s home.”

The door swung open, and Calvin’s mother stepped inside. She was carrying only her purse and her keys, yet her red hair was neatly combed and she was wearing a new change of clothes. Calvin’s stomach twisted. He wondered which would’ve been worse: her coming home in last night’s clothes, or her coming home refreshed like this, despite not having her suitcase on hand.

She didn’t notice the two kids until they descended the staircase. Calvin wasn’t even sure she would have acknowledged him without Meg standing beside him. When she did see them, she frowned.

“Hey, Mom,” Calvin said. His voice trembled ever so slightly.

His mother ignored him and instead scrutinized Meg. “You’re Margaret Murry.”

Calvin felt more than saw Meg squirm. She hated being called by her full name. “People only ever call me Margaret when I’m in trouble,” she had told him once.

“Nice to, um, meet you,” Meg said awkwardly, forcing a smile. Her nose had started to wrinkle as though she smelled something bad.

His mother didn’t return the greeting.

“Meg came over to do homework,” Calvin lied.

“So this is the kind of company you’re keeping these days, then,” his mom replied, her voice laced with scorn.

“Meg’s a good friend,” he blurted out before he could stop himself. “My best friend.”

“Hm. Well, I can’t say I’m pleased, what with that deranged father of hers.” She hung her purse on the rack next to the door. “Everyone knows madness runs in the blood.”

Meg stiffened and she balled her hands into tight fists. Anger flared within Calvin. He wanted nothing more than to defend Meg, to stand up to his mother—but what could he say that she wouldn’t twist and turn against him? What could he say that wouldn’t betray the depth of their relationship or invite more contempt? He glanced at Meg with an apologetic frown; though her lips were pinched together as if stifling a retort, she appeared to understand and gave him a barely perceptible shake of the head.

His mother waltzed into the kitchen, opened the wine cooler, and pulled out a bottle of Zinfandel. Calvin didn’t realize he had tensed until Meg’s fingers brushed his wrist.

“U-Uh,” he struggled to find his voice as he watched his mom pour herself a glass of wine, “Um, I’m going to a friend’s house for a sleepover.”

Calvin hefted the duffel bag, and she glanced down at it as if noticing it for the first time. “Hmph. Fine.”

She didn’t ask to whose house he was going or why Meg had helped him pack. Instead, she simply sat on the sofa, glass of wine in hand, and switched on the TV. Calvin stared. His mother was breaking one of the strictest rules in their house: no food or drinks in the living room. He imagined the wine spilling onto the white carpet, staining it as red as blood, as red as _his_ blood, which had fallen on that same floor nearly a month ago. The scent of bleach stole into his memory and immediately his head throbbed.

Before his father had come home from his retreat, Calvin had anxiously set to work cleaning the living room. The centerpiece had been unsalvageable; glass had littered the floor and he had put on work gloves to avoid cutting his fingers. But the blood had been the worst part. Calvin had scrubbed and scrubbed the carpet until it turned pink and he had been forced to resort to bleach. The scent had clung to his clothes and skin for hours, even after he had showered. He had gone to bed clutching Meg’s hoodie next to him, too afraid of staining it to keep it on, and had tried to fill his senses with the smell of her rather than the dizzying tang of chlorine.

Meg placed a hand on his arm, and Calvin noticed that he was clinging to the scar on his stomach. He swallowed hard and turned away from his mother. She didn’t even glance their way as he and Meg left.

Calvin strode swiftly down the walkway. His nose and throat still burned from the imagined scent of bleach and his skull pounded with a fracturing pain. He vaguely heard Meg call his name behind him. Then the world around him spun and the sunlight flared, and the next thing he knew he was on his knees. Meg was beside him, speaking to him, but her voice sounded far away. For a moment Calvin thought he was going to be sick. His chest seized with sobs and he struggled to breathe. Meg’s arms wrapped around him; slowly lavender overtook the stench of bleach and the pain dulled.

Meg was still talking, but not to him. Raising his head, he saw that she had her phone pressed to her ear.

“Yeah. Yeah, West 24th Street. We’re outside. Okay. Please hurry.” Meg hung up and tucked her phone back in her pocket before taking Calvin’s face in her hands. She brushed her fingers through his hair. “Hey, shh…shh…it’s gonna be okay. My dad’s coming to get us. We’ll be home soon. Just hang in there, okay? Deep breaths, Calvin. Deep breaths. I’m here.”

Meg continued to stroke Calvin’s head in a gentle, consoling manner as they sat on the cracked cement waiting for her father. Though his headache was mostly gone, Calvin’s head felt overstuffed with cotton, pressurized yet woolly. He leaned into Meg and squeezed his misty eyes shut.

A few minutes later, Calvin heard a vehicle roll up to the curb. A car door opened and closed. The metal gate squeaked and footsteps hurried over to them. When he felt a hand rest on his shoulder Calvin opened his eyes and saw Dr. Alex crouching in front of him, his brow furrowed in concern.

“Are you okay, kiddo? Can you stand?”

Calvin nodded wearily. Dr. Alex helped him to his feet and guided him to the car while Meg grabbed his duffel and backpack.

Before climbing in, Calvin cast one last hopeful glance at his house. Maybe his mother would be standing at the undraped window, he thought. Surely she had noticed him fall and would be worried. Perhaps she’d run out and see if he was okay, and then realize she had forgotten to ask where he was going and apologize for her disdainful attitude and hurtful actions.

She wasn’t there.

 

* * *

 

Calvin didn’t say anything on the ride home. He didn’t speak all throughout dinner and he picked numbly at his food. His eyes were glazed, his face flat, his movements sluggish. Halfway through the meal, Meg’s mom stood and, without saying a word, took Calvin upstairs. She came back down five minutes later, alone.

It was Meg’s night to wash the dishes, but when she began walking to the sink after dinner her mother stopped her.

“I’ll do that tonight, Meg. You go check on Calvin. He’s in the guest room.”

Meg went upstairs. Her father followed behind her, and when they reached the second floor he touched her cheek gently.

“I’m gonna be in my room. Let me know if you think Calvin needs me or Mom, okay?”

She nodded.

The door to the guest room was ajar. Meg peeked inside and saw Calvin curled up in bed, tucked snugly beneath the covers. The lamp on the bedside table illuminated an otherwise dark room. Calvin’s eyes were closed, but she could tell he wasn’t asleep by the way his nose twitched when she sat on the edge of the bed.

Her tongue felt as heavy as lead. She had no words, no comforting encouragements. So instead she laid down beside him and pulled him close. Immediately he melted into her embrace and buried his face in her neck. Meg could feel his tears on her skin and his unsteady breath against her collarbone.

As they laid there together, Meg thought back to their day at Long Beach—the soothing, rippling water within the aquarium; the languid sway of sea kelp; the idle movements of the fish as they swam. She remembered the sounds of the ocean as she and Calvin sat on the beach, the sand hot between their toes and the sun warming their skin. She could still feel the ocean breeze teasing the loose curls framing her face and Calvin’s gentle touch as he brushed her hair out of her eyes. The memory felt rich and vivid, as though she were reliving it all over again with Calvin, and it reminded her of what she had experienced the night he had called her from a church in Sacramento—the closeness, the communion, and the odd but familiar and beautiful entanglement.

She kept pulling every happy moment—not only from that day, but from every day that she had known Calvin—into the forefront of her mind, cycling through the feeling of each smile, the sound of each laugh, the ebbing of the waves and the comfort of the blanket fort and the tenderness of their first kiss, over and over in her mind, her heart, and perhaps even her soul. With and through each memory she assured him: _I’m here, you’re safe, I’m here…_

Next to her, Calvin sighed. His body, which before had been worryingly tense, softened in her arms like warm wax. Slowly his breathing began to deepen and even, and Meg felt the gentle veil of sleep settle over him.

Nearly an hour passed before the open door creaked. Meg lifted her head and saw her mother in the doorway.

“Is he asleep?” her mom whispered.

“Yeah.”

“Good. C’mon. It’s a school night, time to get ready for bed.”

Her mom beckoned her, but Meg hesitated. When she saw her daughter’s reservation, Meg’s mother clucked quietly and moved to sit beside her.

“Meg, honey, I know you want to stay with him, but he needs his rest. The past two days have worn him much too thin. Besides, we both know you kick in your sleep.”

Meg knew her mother was right, but it still ached to leave him. It took her half a minute to untangle herself from Calvin, and she squeezed his hand gently before she left.

As they stepped into the hall, her mom made to close the door.

“Wait!” Meg exclaimed a smidge too loud. Her mother shot her a stern look, and she apologized and lowered her voice. “Don’t close it. He told me once that he gets nightmares. If he has one tonight, you can...if I can’t, maybe you can…”

With that, all the composure Meg had been clinging to so desperately slipped out of her grasp and she burst into tears. 

“Oh, Meglet...” Her mom gathered her into a hug and patted the top of her head. “I’ll keep Dad and I’s door open tonight too, okay? We’ll take care of Calvin if anything happens. Don’t worry, baby. Everything is going to be okay. Calvin is going to be okay.”

Her mom’s embrace only made Meg cry harder. Had Calvin’s mother ever held him like this? She thought of the dull, impassive eyes of Mrs. O’Keefe, and thought it unlikely. Meg at least had the love of her mother behind her when her father disappeared. But after Calvin’s father abandoned them, Mrs. O’Keefe had left her son alone in an empty house without a second thought. She hadn’t even spared him a pitying glance earlier today, as though he didn’t even exist.

A hole had grown in Meg’s heart for four long years due to the absence of her father. Her stomach swam with anxiety as she imagined the toll the physical departure of his father and the emotional departure of his mother might have on Calvin.

“C’mon,” Meg’s mom said softly. “Let’s go to bed, now. Sleep will do you good.”

 

* * *

 

The sound of bacon sizzling on the stove greeted Meg as she ambled into the kitchen. Charles Wallace was already seated at the island, drinking a glass of milk and listening to the news on the radio.

“Morning, Megatron,” her dad said as he plated three slices of crispy bacon. “How’d you sleep?”

“Hardly at all.” She sat at the island next to her brother. “I need some coffee.”

Meg’s mother walked in from the lab. She mussed Charles Wallace’s hair and kissed Meg’s temple before washing her hands in the sink. As she began helping her husband with breakfast, Meg looked at the clock on the wall and frowned.

“Where’s Calvin? Is he not up yet?”

Her parents exchanged a glance.

“He’s not going to school today,” her mother said. “With all that’s happened, your father and I decided it’d be best for him to stay here and rest. Last I checked, he was still sound asleep.”

All thoughts of coffee and breakfast fled Meg’s mind. She stood and hurried out of the kitchen as her mother called out after her.

“Don’t wake him, Meg!”

“I won’t!”

Despite the bright sunlight streaming in through the sheer curtains, Calvin was fast asleep. Meg crossed the room and drew the heavier curtains closed, enveloping the room in darkness. As she walked back to the bed her foot struck Calvin’s duffel, and a small smile tugged at her mouth when she saw Harry Otter sticking out of the bag. Bending over, she picked up the plush and took it over to where Calvin slept.

Calvin’s eyebrows were pinched together and his hands were fisted in the covers. Meg sat next to him, careful not to jostle him awake. She smoothed his hair away from his forehead and kissed it softly. His eyelids fluttered but didn’t open.

The temptation to kick off her shoes, crawl into bed beside Calvin, and skip school nearly overwhelmed Meg. If just her dad had been home, she might've had a chance of getting away with it. But her mother, on the other hand, would've likely dragged her back out of bed and chided her for wanting to play hooky, even with the circumstances being rather extenuating.

Before Meg left, she placed Harry Otter in the crook of Calvin’s arm. Immediately he nuzzled closer to it and sighed.

 

* * *

 

School dragged on and on; by the time the final bell rang Meg had considered ditching class and running home on four separate occasions. When her mother finally arrived to pick up her and Charles Wallace, Meg scrambled into the passenger seat without bothering to take off her backpack.

“Is Calvin okay?”

The car idled as her mother cast a sympathetic glance toward her daughter. “He’s awake.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“He only just woke up a couple hours ago, Meglet, and he hasn’t said much. I wish I could tell you more, but you’ll see him in a few minutes and can find out for yourself. I have a feeling he’ll be less reticent with you.”

The textbooks in her bag were digging into Meg’s back, but she was far too distracted to do anything about it. Charles Wallace asked their mother to turn on the radio, and jazz filled the silence for the rest of the ride.

Meg rushed inside once they arrived home. In the living room, an episode of _Chopped_  was playing on the TV with the audio muted. Calvin laid on the couch, not watching the show but instead staring off into space, his gaze nowhere near the TV. Meg’s backpack slid off her shoulders and hit the floor with a thud. The sound caused Calvin to look up, and when he saw Meg his eyes softened.

Meg’s mother ushered Charles Wallace upstairs with a knowing glance at the teens. Once they were gone, Calvin sat up and made room for Meg to join him on the couch. His hair was damp and curly from a recent shower and he was wearing a fresh set of clothes. Yet, despite sleeping for half the day, he looked drained.

“How are you feeling?" asked Meg. She wished to hold him, but the dull look on his face and the way his eyes drifted down to stare at the floor made her hesitate. Her hands fiddled with the hem of her shirt.

Calvin shrugged. Meg waited for him to speak, but he never did. An awkward and quiet minute passed before she cleared her throat and dragged her backpack close. She unzipped her bag and pulled out her torn, sticker-studded notebook.

“I know I never take notes, but I, um, took notes today. For you. Mrs. Estrella went over sentence diagramming, which I don’t understand at all, but I copied down everything she wrote on the board, so I hope that helps. And we had a pop quiz in history. I doubt Williams will make you take it tomorrow, but just in case he does, brush up on the all the major battles from chapter five. I wish I had; I definitely failed. Then, uh, in science we reviewed tectonic plates for tomorrow’s test, and math was pretty easy. Percentages and whatnot. I’m sorry for how messy it all is, my handwriting’s atrocious and everything’s so disorganized and I—”

Calvin cut off her rambling by swiftly drawing her into a hug.

“Thank you,” he mumbled into her hair. His grip grew a tad tighter. “For everything.”

“O-Of course, Cal.”

The hug lasted longer than Meg expected. Calvin’s arms felt heavy around her, and when he eventually pulled away he slumped back against the cushions. Meg cupped his cheek and tried to search his eyes, but he kept his gaze down and studied the knit pattern of the blanket beneath them.

“Do you wanna just watch TV?” she asked, but he shook his head.

“I really need to get started on homework.”

Meg wanted to argue that no, he didn’t; all their teachers adored him and would no doubt be lenient if he asked them for an extension. But Calvin had already grabbed her notes and started skimming through them. She sighed and begrudgingly joined him.

On a normal day, Meg would be the one grumbling over homework while Calvin worked to finish his assignments with calmness and patience. Other than the rare times a particularly hard math problem left him frustrated, Meg had never seen him get upset over schoolwork. Until now. 

They had decided to start with English first. Though she didn't know how to diagram sentences, Meg had kept silent as they worked through the two-sided sheet. Calvin took much longer than usual to finish the assignment, and by the time he did Meg had already moved onto algebra. Three problems in his knee started bouncing and he spent more time tapping his pencil against his thumb than scribbling down percentages.

Finally, Meg placed a hand on his knee and asked, “Do you need any help?”

Calvin’s grip on his pencil tightened, but he nodded. Meg scooted closer and worked through each step with him. But around the third step, as he was writing a nine, Calvin applied too much pressure to his pencil and tore a hole in the paper. At this he swore loudly and slammed his hand against his textbook. Meg started at his outburst and immediately he touched her arm.

“I’m sorry, it’s not you. I’m sorry.” Leaning forward, Calvin rubbed his face with both hands and let out a frustrated groan. “I’m just—I can’t _think_. Or, no, no that’s not...I’m thinking too much. I can’t _stop_ thinking. Everything is so—” He smacked the side of his head with the same sentiment as someone shaking out a dusty rug.

“I understand.”

Guilt flashed across Calvin’s face. “I’m sorry. I forgot about your dad for a moment.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Calvin.” Meg squeezed his shoulder. “Okay? None of this is your fault.”

He looked away, jaw tight.

“We could take a break,” Meg began to offer, but Calvin shook his head.

“I’ve been doing nothing all day.” He stood and began pacing. “I need to do _something_. _Anything_ other than _thinking_.”

Meg sat in silence for a minute, chewing the inside of her lip. Then she stood. “I’ll be right back.”

She left Calvin in the living room and went upstairs to her room. A part of the attic was still used for storage, and Meg maneuvered around the folded ping-pong table and the dollhouse until she found the bin she was looking for. Digging through it, she found an old deflated basketball and a hand pump. After dusting the ball off she spent a few minutes inflating it before hurrying back downstairs. Meg stopped at her parents’ room first and quickly told them her plan, then descended to the living room.

“Cal,” she called, and when he turned to face her she held up the basketball. “Catch.”

Meg clumsily tossed the ball to Calvin, who caught it with ease. “What—?”

“Grab your jacket.”

 

* * *

 

Halfway between the Murry and O’Keefe homes sat a small neighborhood park. It had a large patch of turf and a jungle gym and, most importantly, it had a basketball court.

“Meg, you hate basketball.”

“But you don’t.”

That brought a tiny smile to Calvin’s face. “Alright. Half court, one–on–one?”

“More like one–on–one-half.”

“I’ll go easy on you.”

“Don’t you dare, Hotshot.”

For the first time that day, Calvin laughed.

Meg understood basketball in theory. Velocity, gravity, drag force, Magnus force, projectile motion—basketball was a physicist’s dream, if that physicist happened to be athletic and didn’t stumble over her own two feet every three seconds. It was funny, Meg mused, how such a physics-saturated sport could be mastered by those with little knowledge of the very science they employed, relying instead on gut instinct and muscle memory.

Calvin might not have been a physicist, but he was certainly an athlete. Their game mostly consisted of Meg relentlessly fouling Calvin while he, despite her best efforts, scored basket after basket. The one time Meg did manage to steal the ball away from him, she chucked it at the hoop and missed by a mile.

“Ugh! You make it look so easy!” Meg whined as she ran after the ball.

Calvin chuckled. “You didn’t stop to make the shot. You tried to shoot while still running and you ended up tripping over yourself.”

“But you’ve made shots while running before.”

“Up by the basket? Those are layups. For those, you dribble right up to the hoop and use the backboard to score. But when you’re not making a layup, you have to stop for a moment to shoot. Come stand at the free throw line.”

Meg moved to where he pointed.

“Now, take the shot.”

She heaved the basketball at the hoop. It cuffed the bottom of the net pathetically. Calvin fetched the ball and handed it back to Meg. When she placed her hands on either side of the basketball and prepared to shoot again, he stopped her.

“Not like that. Here, lemme.” He adjusted her grip, placing her right hand under the ball, then came up behind her and tapped the back of her heel with the toe of his shoe. “Keep your legs a shoulder-width apart.”

After she adjusted her stance, Calvin shifted closer and cradled her elbows. His chest pressed up against her back and heat crawled up Meg’s neck. She could feel his heart beating against her shoulder blade.

“Alright,” he said, his voice low in her ear. “Tuck your elbows in. Yeah, just like that. Perfect. Now, your left hand is just to keep the ball balanced. All the power in your shot comes from your right. Don’t look at the ball, look at the basket. You’re gonna be aiming for that red square on the backboard. When you’re ready to shoot, bend your knees and push the ball up with your right hand, snapping your wrist forward. Don’t push with your left; just let it fall to the side. You ready?”

Meg nodded, and Calvin guided her through the shot. The ball sailed through the air in an arc and bounced off the rim of the basket. She pouted, but Calvin praised her.

“Hey, nice shot. That’s a great start.”

For the next ten minutes, they continued practicing. Calvin didn’t direct Meg’s arms anymore, but after retrieving the ball he would still stand behind her with his hands loose on her hips. Meg didn’t know how she was able to focus with him holding her like that, but miraculously she sunk three out of ten baskets.

As the ball struck the ground after her tenth shot, Meg waited for Calvin to go after it. He didn’t move. She turned in his grip to face him, her brow pinched in confusion, and was upset to see that his eyes had grown sad once more. Meg stroked his cheek and Calvin leaned into her touch, pressing his mouth to her palm. He folded his hands against the small of her back.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “I needed the distraction.”

“Do you wanna go home?”

“In a minute.”

“Okay.”

They stood holding each other for a silent spell. Finally, Calvin sighed and pulled away. He crossed the court to grab the basketball, then wordlessly took Meg’s offered hand and let her lead him out of the park. His mood had dipped back into numb sadness, and though it pained Meg to see him this way, she understood.

There had been distractions from her own despair during her father’s disappearance. It had been the little things, mostly: a beautiful drawing by Charles Wallace that still hung above the desk in her room, a surprise milkshake from her favorite ice cream parlor courtesy of her mother, or an unexpected B on a test she was positive she had flunked. In those moments of delight, of contentment, she had forgotten her sadness. But then, inevitably, Meg would remember, and the melancholy would return.

Meg didn’t know how long Calvin’s grief would last. But through it all, through the ups and the downs, she was determined to be a source of comfort and light for him.

She squeezed his hand, and he squeezed hers back.

 

* * *

 

Wind rustled through the trees in the backyard, causing moonlight to pour in shifting shadows across the grass. Dangling chimes sang soft melodies to the cool night air.

Calvin sat on the patio loveseat, searching the heavens for familiar constellations. Orion peeked out from behind a distant row of houses, and he couldn’t help but think of the Happy Medium and wonder if perhaps the seer ever used his clairvoyance to check in on the strange kids who had come to him for guidance nearly four months ago.

It had been two days since Calvin had last seen his father. Before Saturday night, that would’ve felt like a blessing. In most ways, it still did; with his father gone, he was finally safe from his abuse. And yet...

Despite what Dr. Kate had said yesterday morning, Calvin hated the part of himself that still loved his father. He wished he could reach into his heart and scoop out all the love he felt for him, light a match, and set it ablaze. Maybe then he could feel happy about his departure. But instead, every inch of Calvin _ached_. He had always hoped—naively, he knew—that perhaps one day his father would grow to love him and change his hurtful ways. Now, all that hope was gone. His father didn’t love him. His father had never loved him. And his mother cared more about herself than her own son.

Calvin felt like a shell of himself, like a hollow porcelain vase teetering on the edge of a table, vulnerable to the slightest bump.

The back door squeaked on its hinges. Footsteps shuffled across the wooden deck, too heavy to be Charles Wallace, too light to be one of the adults.

Meg.  

She sat beside him. Her right arm was tucked behind her back as if she were hiding something.

“Hey,” said Meg. “What’re you doing out here?”

“Just wanted to be alone for a bit.”

Meg visibly wilted. But as she readied to leave Calvin placed his hand overtop hers and met her eyes.

“Stay. Please."

“...Okay." After a couple moments, Meg cleared her throat and shifted closer to him. "I, um, wanted to give you something.”

She brought her hand out from behind her back and produced a curious origami craft. A red heart was drawn in the center with what looked like crayon. Calvin took it from her hands gingerly.

“Do you remember what Mrs Who told me when she gave me her glasses?” Meg asked him.

“She said to only use them in a time of peril. And that they see, uh...stuff that’s enfolded. ‘Not gone, just enfolded’. You said it again when you used them to find your dad.”

“Mrs Who wasn’t the first person to tell me that. When I was ten, not long before my dad disappeared, he and my mom gave me this. I’m…I’m gonna tell you the same thing they told me. See, this,” Meg tapped the heart, “is our love—mine, my parents’, Charles Wallace’s. Okay? Now unfold it.”

Calvin did. The heart vanished and he shot Meg a confused look.

“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s not gone. It’s just—”

“Just enfolded,” finished Calvin in a whisper, understanding. When he unfurled the origami completely the heart doubled in size. His throat began to burn.

“Love is always there, Calvin. Always. Even if...” Meg faltered. Her bottom lip was trembling and tears welled in her eyes. “Even if you don’t feel it.”

“I…Meg…” Calvin felt as though all the air had been knocked from his lungs.

Meg was crying freely now, and she wiped at her running nose. When she spoke her voice was thick with tears. “Just, no matter what, know that we love you. That I…I love you, Calvin.”

It was by no means a dramatic declaration—in fact, it came out more like a tearful squeak—but Calvin thought his chest might burst from overwhelming joy. Though her whole face was hot and damp and flushed from crying, he cupped her cheeks with both hands and kissed her fervently. Tears stung Calvin’s eyes, and when they broke apart he bit back a sob. Meg embraced him and he buried his face in her hair.  Every hollow within him swelled with joy and love until Calvin felt, for the first time since his father left, nearly whole again.

When they had cried themselves dry, Calvin pulled Meg’s glasses off and cleaned the streaked lenses with his shirt, then placed them back on her nose. She thanked him by using the sleeve of her hoodie to wipe the tears off his cheeks.

Calvin rested his forehead against Meg’s. “I love you too, Meg. So much.”

“I know,” Meg whispered shyly, pressing her fingers against his lips to shush him. He clasped her hand in his and kissed it, then threaded his fingers through hers and kissed her lips again, slow and sweet. She hummed, and Calvin smiled.

Silence wrapped around them like a blanket. For the next half hour, they simply sat on the patio loveseat, not saying anything aloud but speaking through their intertwined hands and steady heartbeats. Orion rose above the looming palms, lingering over the two teens with a watchful eye.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! ♥︎


End file.
